Among Heroes: A U.S. Navy SEAL's True Story of Friendship, Heroism, and the Ultimate Sacrifice (17 page)

JT’s coffin was flown out to his hometown in Iowa to a small airport in nearby Mason City, about a half hour away. The motorcade bringing JT to Rockford, led by hundreds of Patriot Guard Riders on motorcycles, drew people from far and wide. At one point Kathy Tumilson, JT’s mother, saw a semi parked off the road on the other side of the interstate, driver standing at attention by his inert rig, hat over his heart, as they drove by. People started showing up on the overpasses as the motorcade passed underneath, paying their respects. The closer they got to Rockford, the more people lined the overpasses. By the time they turned onto the blacktop to head into Rockford it was like a parade, people standing two and three deep, with posters and flags, many of them weeping. More than fifteen hundred people attended JT’s funeral service—a number, it should be noted, that is nearly twice the entire population of Rockford.

At one point during the service, a friend led Hawkeye, JT’s faithful chocolate Lab, silently up to the front of the gymnasium where the military casket sat draped with its American flag. Hawkeye lay down on the cold floor next to the casket and didn’t move from that spot as the service continued. You might remember seeing that photo; within days it went viral, showing up in newspapers and on websites everywhere, the wordless expression of an intensely personal grief that resonated nationally.

At the time of the crash, Heath Robinson’s grandfather had been ill for months. When he heard the news that his first grandson had died, it was too much. He died four days later, on August 10. “I have to go,” he told his wife.

I think I understood how he felt. I think all of us in the teams understood how he felt.

•   •   •

There’s been some controversy around the downing of Extortion 17, in part because there were such a large number of SEALs aboard this one helicopter. Most of that controversy is manufactured and groundless, spurred on by shameless partisan politics and base motivations. But there was one thing about it that has plagued me.

The SEALs who saw that helo shot down back in June 2005 said it was
not
an RPG but something much more powerful, a MANPAD (man-portable air defense missile) of some sort, that took the bird down. According to Peter Nealen, a former recon Marine sniper and veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, “Had a suspected MANPAD been reported and verified, it’s likely that loss of life in-theater linked to shot-down helicopters could have been prevented, including the controversial Extortion 17 crash that would happen years later” (
Operation Red Wings
, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2013).

Why
didn’t
they include this crucial point in the after-action report on Operation Red Wings?

It’s always risky to speculate, and since I was not privy to any part of that process when it occurred, speculation is all this is. But I would guess it was because they knew that if they did include it, they would create one hell of a shit storm that could seriously disrupt the way we were managing our air operations in that AO at the time. An RPG has no guidance system. A MANPAD, which is not a grenade but a type of missile, does. If we’d known we were potentially up against portable, shoulder-fired guided missiles in that theater, would we have been forced to upgrade the defensive
capabilities on our helos, with better and/or additional countermeasures?

Granted, they may not have had 100 percent accuracy on that MANPAD observation. But there was enough to put it in the damn report. If it’d been me, I sure as hell would have mentioned it. How many more helicopters have been shot down between June 2005 and now—including the helo carrying Chris, Heath, JT, and more than two dozen others—that potentially might
not
have been shot down had we looked squarely at the intelligence from the ground and adjusted our rules and procedures accordingly?

•   •   •

They held a funeral service for the lost heroes of Extortion 17 at Arlington, where they buried all the Americans from the crash together. My old Golf Platoon teammate Mike Ritland attended the service, and while he was there he suddenly thought about Dave Scott and his tragic passing in Guam nine years earlier, in part because Dave had also been buried at Arlington. “The shittiest thing about Dave’s death,” Mike says, “was that none of us could go to the funeral because we were all on deployment out in the Philippines at the time.” Mike had felt awful that he couldn’t be there for Kat on that day back in 2002. And yet, in the nine years since, he had never visited the grave site.

He says he still can’t explain exactly why that was. He doesn’t need to explain it to me.

When the ceremony was over, Mike started walking. Before long he found himself at Dave Scott’s grave site. It was nearing five o’clock, but in that late August D.C. afternoon the heat still hung around Mike like a canopy. Like Guam.
Nobody else was around, not even a car driving by, just humid, hovering silence. He stood for a bit, then knelt down and placed a SEAL Team Three coin and a SEAL Trident down on Dave’s grave site, where they joined the small cluster of Marine Marathon finishers’ medals.

“I talked to Dave for a few minutes,” recalls Mike. “Busted his balls for a bit. Then got up and went on my way.”

A lot of time had passed since Dave Scott’s death in 2002, and even more since Mike Bearden’s two years before that. I’d lost quite a few more friends over those years, and now so many at once—not only Chris and Heath and JT but more than a dozen other good men, some of whom I knew in passing, and all of whom I knew in one way or another, if only by reputation. It’s a close-knit community.

But still, I didn’t go to Arlington.

At this point I still hadn’t attended a single memorial service.

Not long after the crash, I wrote a blog post honoring the guys who were on that helo. In the post I mentioned how Heath and I had been friends in Afghanistan. Someone, an unidentified teams guy, wrote a comment on the post: “Some friend—you didn’t even go to the funeral.”

To this day I don’t know who wrote those words, but they burned deep. The thing is, we all have to deal with loss and grief in our own way. I didn’t show up for the funeral, but that didn’t mean Heath and Chris and JT and all the others weren’t weighing heavy on my heart.

At the time of the helo crash, my book
The Red Circle
was about to be published, and I was thinking about what I should work on next. The loss of so many friends in one
terrible event planted a seed that took shape over the following year and would eventually become the book you hold in your hands. In 2012 my writing partner and I drew up a proposal, signed a contract with a publisher, and started work on the manuscript.

I never imagined that before it was over I would be writing about my best friend,
Glen.

EVERYONE’S BEST
FRIEND

GLEN DOHERTY

T
he first time I saw Glen Doherty, he was relaxing in a parked Humvee, reading a book, and I was on the edge of physical collapse.

I remember the moment like a snapshot, because it struck me right then how ironic it was. Here we were, the toughest of the tough, baddest of the bad, strapping young specimens on our way to becoming Navy SEALs, and what was this guy doing? Sitting there reading some piece of classical literature like a third-year English lit student. And here was the ironic part: My first thought was,
Hey, another one
. Because reading was one of my great loves, too—classic novels, popular page-turners, memoirs, business books, you name it. Being a voracious reader was something Glen and I had in common—as I would soon learn, one of many things we had in common. Maybe we both sensed that.

In any case, there we were: him perched in his comfortable Humvee, me on my last legs, one of the few men still standing in the final stretch of a brutal fourteen-mile forced run in full gear in the scorching midsummer California desert, which on a cool day was close to a hundred degrees. And
this wasn’t a cool day. Out of a class of seventy-two guys, barely a dozen of us were still vertical.

Actually, I wasn’t exactly vertical either. Both my legs had just seized up and I had dropped like a sack of cement.

Glen glanced up from his book and grinned at me. “How ya doin’? Ya look like shit.”

I did look like shit. I
felt
like shit.

It was the summer of 1998, toward the end of our STT session at postapocalyptic Niland, and this was that same fourteen-mile ordeal that Mike Bearden breezed through and that just about killed the rest of us. Of course, our instructors didn’t want it to
literally
kill us. They just wanted to take us as close to that brink as they could without any of us actually tipping over the edge. Which was why Glen was there. Glen was a Navy medic, or corpsman, about to go through STT himself, and right now attached to our class as support staff, on hand to make sure we didn’t die from heatstroke or dehydration in the inhuman conditions at Niland.

I didn’t know this guy, but something about him stood out. For one thing, he seemed like he was in a perpetual great mood, his face always wearing an easy smile. Not an evil grin or a fuck-you sneer (we had plenty of those in the group), just a genuine, good-natured smile. Which stood out even more for a corpsman.

Most corpsmen tended to have a pretty pissed-off attitude at that point, stemming from the fact that they were stuck in a sort of built-in career rut. Their path to earning their SEAL Trident was at least six months longer than it was for the rest of us. While we went directly on to STT right out of BUD/S, corpsmen first had to go through a six-month training course out at Fort Bragg: the Special Operations medical course,
also known as 18 Delta. Glen had actually gone through BUD/S well before the rest of us—but here we were, plowing on through STT, which Glen hadn’t even started yet. Like all corpsmen, he was anxious to get started. Still, it didn’t seem to have put a chip on his shoulder.

Even in the midst of the excruciating pain, as I tried to get my seized-up leg muscles working again, I could see that he was a genuine guy, someone you could get to know and trust right away. There’s a great line from
The Shawshank Redemption
, when Red (Morgan Freeman) first meets Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins) in prison:

He had a quiet way about him, a walk and a talk that just wasn’t normal around here. He strolled like a man in a park without a care or worry in the world, like he had on an invisible coat that would shield him from this place. Yeah, I think it would be fair to say . . . I liked Andy from the start.

This guy was like that. Like Andy Dufresne, he had a quiet smile on his face, like he was mostly here but a part of him was somewhere else, listening to the punch line of a joke the rest of us hadn’t heard yet. It was just a fleeting impression, though, and in the remaining days of STT I barely got to know him, let alone to sense that he would become one of the most influential people in my life. I was too busy getting my ass kicked.

Glen helped me to my feet, got some water in me, and watched me take off again to make those last few miles before collapsing for the night.

•   •   •

A few months later, STT now behind me, I was out surfing off the San Diego coast. This beautiful tube opened up in front of me. I pulled into it, and in the next moment it collapsed around me—in surfer’s terms, it
closed out
. My board flew up out of control and I took a rail in the head, banged myself up pretty bad.

I got myself back onto the beach to assess the situation. My face was covered in blood. Probably no more than an inch-and-a-half gash, but head wounds bleed like a son of a bitch.

I had a few choices: I could go in to the naval hospital, the Navy’s version of the ER. But as SEALs we had our own medical clinic, each team with its own medical station. Much easier: faster service, less paperwork. Hell, all I needed was a few off-the-record stitches. Most SEALs I know have very few entries in their medical records—as few as possible, in fact. I climbed into my car and drove myself over to Team Three medical, parked, and walked in bleeding all over the place.

There were two medics on call: a guy I didn’t know, and Glen.

I wasn’t that well versed in Special Operations yet, but I’d seen enough to know that there were two kinds of medics in the service: One is the guy who is skilled but treats you like a farm animal. He looks you over, punches a needle in your arm, and says, “I gave you a local; now shut the fuck up and hold still while I stitch you up.” They might be great guys otherwise. I’ve had quite a few friends who fall into the brutal-medic category, and I’d trust my life to them on the battlefield. (In fact, I
have
.) I’d just rather not have them sewing me up if I have the luxury of choice.

Even without knowing Glen all that well, it was obvious he was the other kind of corpsman: the kind who has a genuine knack for it, who gravitates to the job because he actually wants to take care of people.
And
animals.

When Glen was a kid and adults would ask him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would answer, “A veterinarian.” From the earliest age, he had a love of animals. He and his siblings were always taking in strays. One day Glen and his sister, Kate, found a mouse and sneaked it up to the third-floor attic. They named it Speedy and kept it in secret for days, until their mom caught them smuggling food upstairs. She let them keep the little guy.

Not long after that, Glen adopted a stray black-and-white cat he named Raisin (for reasons known only to Glen). Raisin was a street cat, mean and tough as nails. That crazy tom located Speedy without difficulty, and that was the end of Speedy. A few months later the kids got another kitten. Raisin killed it that first night. When Kate would try to pet Raisin, he would bite her. This cat was one bad son of a bitch, the nastiest cat the kids had ever seen. But Glen loved him, and Raisin loved Glen. He was Glen’s cat and nobody else’s.

Glen was the same way with people. There wasn’t
anyone
he couldn’t relate to and get along with. Of course, I didn’t know any of this until much later, when we got to be good friends. But I knew enough to make sure it was Glen who stitched me up, and not the other guy.

I sat on the table at Team Three medical, and he went to work.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m going to give you a local, and then I’m gonna irrigate this wound. . . .” As he worked he explained what he was doing, step by step. “Okay,” I heard him
say, “you’re good to go.” Before I knew it, I was out of there with seven stitches on my head and a new friend.

As I got to know Glen better, I learned more about what his 18 Delta training had been like.

“Imagine being in a dark room,” he told me one day. “Earsplitting rock music blaring over loudspeakers, strobe lights going on and off. Guy on the floor in front of you with a gunshot wound. You have to find his vein in the dark, give him an IV, do it right—and do it fast, because his life is ebbing away. Okay, it’s not actually a guy. It’s a goat. But guess what: If that goat dies, you don’t graduate.”

It might be a goat, or a pig, or some other animal. Sometimes it was a gunshot wound, other times a severed limb or some other trauma with equally fatal potential. Not for the faint of heart.

“Also not very popular with the PETA set,” he added. “But it’s damn good training, and it saves guys’ lives in the field.”

After Fort Bragg they were shipped to New York City for some on-the-job training: riding around in civilian ambulances and working the ER.

“They sent us to the worst neighborhoods,” he told me, “where drug-related violence and gang warfare are an everyday thing. I treated a lot of stabbings and gunshot wounds.”

Glen told me about one 911 call they responded to where a man had called in and said he couldn’t get out of his bed, and it was an emergency. They drove to the address and hoofed it up the five- or six-story walk-up, and once they crashed into the guy’s apartment, they saw why he couldn’t get out of bed.

“Dude”—Glen shook his head and gave an incredulous
laugh—“this guy was
beyond
fat. He was morbidly obese. I mean, he couldn’t
move
.”

He paused for a second, trying to find the words to describe the scene.

“Stacks of old rotting magazines, delivery boxes, mostly empty food containers all over the place, shit piled everywhere . . . and this unbelievable stench. It was like that scene out of
Se7en
—you know, the murdered guy who exemplified the sin of sloth? This was that guy.”

Glen and his teammates had to hoist the obese man out of his bed and carry him down all those flights of stairs.

“I saw a lot of ugly things in 18 Delta,” he said. “That was the worst. But hey, you know? We had to help the guy.”

•   •   •

A few days before receiving my Trident that fall, I learned I was being assigned to Golf Platoon. Being assigned to a platoon is a kind of draft-pick process, much the way it works with a pro sports team. Each platoon had its own reputation, some decidedly better than others. We all had high hopes for which platoon we’d be assigned to.

Golf Platoon was one of the best. Glen was there, and so was my BUD/S classmate Mike Ritland, who was living at the time in that one-bedroom guesthouse behind the little house I was renting in San Diego. Mike, who today is a renowned dog trainer and author of
Trident K9 Warriors
, a bestselling book about SEAL dogs, tells a story about being—forgive the expression, Mike—sick as a dog in that house.

Understand, when you’re in the SEALs, you don’t call in sick. If you think you’re sick you go in anyway. If the officers in charge say you’re too sick to be there,
then
you go home. But this time Mike got so sick that he literally couldn’t go in.
He’d gotten food poisoning from some bad clams, and spent days puking continuously and uncontrollably. To make things worse, none of us
knew
he was sick. He was back there in that little cottage by himself with no phone. He couldn’t go for help. He couldn’t even walk.

“I would crawl slowly from my bed to my bathroom,” he says, “where I would collapse on the floor for an hour or two before I could manage to crawl back to my bed. After a few days of this, I was so dehydrated, I knew I was going to die.”

And then, like an angel of mercy appearing out of nowhere, Glen came bursting through the door with two five-hundred-milliliter bags of IV fluids and a satchel of meds. He got some fluids into Mike, got him cleaned up a little and put together. Over the next few days he came back a few more times to check up on Mike and make sure he was okay.

To this day Mike says he has no idea how Glen knew he was at home dying. “Maybe he noticed I hadn’t shown up for quarters for a few days and figured it out. All I know is, he saved my life.”

As I got to know Glen a little better I learned something about him I hadn’t seen at first: Beneath that affable, unflappable exterior there beat the heart of a freaking perfectionist.

Glen, or “Bub,” as we all called him, excelled at everything he put his mind and body to. It wasn’t that he was a naturally gifted athlete. He was a slender guy, not built especially like a born jock. But he was driven. His childhood pal Sean explains it perfectly: “Glen was the one who was willing to put in the work.”

In those years between STT and deploying overseas, we did a lot of surfing off the Coronado coast. I was practically
born in the water and spent most of my teenage years working on a dive boat. Not Glen. He was a gifted skier—as Sean puts it, “Watching Glen on skis was seeing poetry in motion”—but he was no natural-born surfer. In fact, he honestly wasn’t that good at it. But he had more damn fun surfing than anyone else I’ve ever known, and he poured himself into it hard enough to get himself to the point of competence.

Glen never seemed to need much sleep. He was always the last one to crash at night and the first to get up in the morning. If he wasn’t heading out for a run, he was in the kitchen cooking everyone breakfast—or getting everyone else up to run. He would be up at dawn after a night of major partying, when everyone was still hungover, calling out, “Okay, everybody, we’re goin’ on a six-mile run and then gonna lift some weights!” Everyone else would be groaning, “Jesus, no—c’mon, Glen . . .” but off he’d go. He called it “sweating the demons out.” You work hard, you play hard, and then you get back to work on yourself again—hard. That was not only Glen’s modus operandi—it was also his working definition of life as a SEAL.